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<title>Punjab; or, Erik learns that spontaneously growing a moral compass may sting. by A_Stressed_Cupcake</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25269481">Punjab; or, Erik learns that spontaneously growing a moral compass may sting.</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Stressed_Cupcake/pseuds/A_Stressed_Cupcake'>A_Stressed_Cupcake</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera &amp; Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, Christine needs a vacation, Erik Has Feelings, F/M, Gen, I apologize in advance, Introspection, Mostly Gen, My First Work in This Fandom, Only partial but still, POV Erik, Poor Raoul is gonna need a doctor, Present Tense, Still Angst with a happy ending, Strangulation, Unrequited Love, Update: this is now a long fic, and they all need a hug, so much introspection</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 05:28:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>14,576</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25269481</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Stressed_Cupcake/pseuds/A_Stressed_Cupcake</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"The room falls silent. Again. Too silent.<br/>Only the sound of Christine's quiet sobs and his own laboured breaths echoes in the lair. Something is missing. Something isn't right, and Christine realizes it only a second before he does."</p><p>______</p><p>Or, an AU where Erik spontaneously grows a solid moral compass mostly by himself.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Christine Daaé &amp; Erik | Phantom of the Opera, One-sided Erik/Christine - Relationship, Philippe &amp; Raoul de Chagny, Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>47</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Punjab</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Tw for lots of discussion of death. And, you know. Hanging  :/</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <span>The candles have all gone out since he's left his lair, and he doesn't have time to light more than a few of them before Christine storms in. She seems upset, and her brief and rare anger turns to terror on the drop of a dime as she ponders the implications of the marriage she's found herself in. She'll come around, eventually. He can wait.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tells her as much. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Turn around and face your fate</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he says, and she goes quiet, instinctively fixing the veil on her head like the great actress she was born to be. He takes it as a good sign. A sign of acceptance, maybe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She tells him something.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"This haunted face holds no horror for me now." she murmurs, but he doesn't hear the rest. He's busy listening to the creak of old wood and stone, the quiet click of a man's shoes, water dripping from his figure after he's so bravely and so stupidly swum across the lake. Irritation sparks in his chest, but blooms quickly into utter delight when he realizes it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy's no fighter. No assassin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is no match.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He interrupts whatever Christine was trying to distract him with: "Wait." he grins raising a finger to her lips to silence her, "I think, my dear, we have a guest!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No sooner has Christine turned around to see where he's pointing than the young viscount reveals himself to them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She screams his name. Maybe she's come to the same conclusion as Erik has. Poor, merciful Christine pities his fate even before it has come.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He greets the young man: "Sir! This is, indeed, an unparalleled delight!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels his fingers twitch with the urge to be wrapped around the boy's neck. Tightly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has to settle for petty taunts, for the time being.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The viscount yells. He doesn't care.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Christine!! Christine!!" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>All the same.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Let me see her</span>
  </em>
  <span>!!" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His voice cracks. Good. He's vulnerable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Be my guest!" Erik smiles, and lets his fingers relax. Christine falls from their grip, gasping. Gasping for air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's been strangling someone, alright. But not the viscount.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He almost trips when he steps back from her and his hand twitches again, not with murderous intent, but with shame. He steps back. All the way back. To his closet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He watches the lovers' pathetic little scene and the rage boils in his chest again, like six months ago on the rooftop. His fingers, his sinful fingers, which in their blind rage would have silenced even the most beautiful of voices, brush against the rope. The lasso's made. All he has to do is use it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And the poor, stupid viscount has made the terrible mistake of turning his back to him. He can't see him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christine is curled up into a ball and too short to see over her fiancé's shoulder anyway. She can't see him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In fact, she only seems to realize he's in danger when he's yanked away from her by the neck, awkwardly, but desperately standing on the tips of his toes, with just enough air to speak and not much more. He claws at the rope, but the noose is tight and he can't see the masterfully tied knot that holds it together. In addition to his certainly exhausting swim across the lake, it ensures he can't escape on his own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Erik feels a sense of sadistic excitement when he ties the rope far out of either of their reaches.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jealousy rears its ugly head in with newfound vigour when Christine makes a run for her lover. He stops her in her tracks.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Your love or his life</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That is the bargain, and he will not be swayed. He will win no matter what, and the viscount will lose no matter what. But he is a man of his word, of course. If she lets him die, she may go. If she stays with him, the young man will not be harmed. As long as they're parted. Without another man to sway her to his side, she poses no danger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christine cries and pleads; </span>
  <em>
    <span>fallen idol and false friend</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she calls him, spitting what are surely the most hateful words her angelic voice have ever spoken. And, dear God, they're beginning to work. No matter what he answers, no matter what satisfying, pathetic pleas the dying viscount makes, he can feel each and every one of her words chipping away at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Does she truly hate him?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why, exactly?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's not that she has no reason at all to dislike him, but which is the one that pushed her over the edge? Which is the one that made her not dislike him, not fear him, like everyone else, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>hate </span>
  </em>
  <span>him? Hate him so much that she doesn't fear the consequences of what she says anymore?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't realize he's been speaking the whole time until the room falls silent and his voice still echoes for a moment, alone, before it drops much like the other two. Christine looks him in the eyes, venom in her stare, no more innocence in those eyes now than in his own, and it </span>
  <em>
    <span>frightens </span>
  </em>
  <span>him, for a moment. And then her eyes go back to their normal self. Melancholy, innocent, sweet Christine has tears in her eyes again, </span>
  <em>
    <span>tears of hate</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she swears, but the venom flees her voice with her last desperate cry: "You </span>
  <em>
    <span>deceived</span>
  </em>
  <span> me!! I gave my mind blindly!!" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The room falls silent. Again. Too silent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Only the sound of Christine's quiet sobs and his own laboured breaths echoes in the lair. Something is missing. Something isn't right, and Christine realizes it only a second before he does.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She cries out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With newfound strength, Christine runs towards him, again, no, </span>
  <em>
    <span>past </span>
  </em>
  <span>him; when he tries to stop her, she pulls her arm away with more violent zeal than he has ever wished to see on her: she shoves past him with a high-pitched scream, and freezes in her tracks a breath away from her fiancé.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A breath away, if he were breathing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the viscount has gone still, with no more protestations or struggles; his arms hang loosely, one at his side, the other stuck by three fingers in the noose he's uselessly tried to free himself from. Christine's hands tremble, inches from him, inches away from the rope. Not that she could undo it. She is unarmed and the knot is too complicated for anyone but one of Erik's background to undo. But her hands, the beautiful, small hands of a star, cannot find it in themselves to taint their purity with the stench of sin and violence that hangs heavy around the dying viscount.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dying.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Dying</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not </span>
  <em>
    <span>dead</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Dying</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She realizes it too, when she finally finds the courage to brush his hair away from his livid face. Her fingers bristle. She gasps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She's found breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her fury returns. Angelic fury, that thrives only in love, protection, </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span>. She nearly throws herself on the first sharp thing she can find, she hacks furiously away at the rope that holds her fiancé, but she doesn't have the right tools: she's only tugging at the rope, tightening it. Hers is desperation, pure and simple and illogical, and she doesn't stop, and if she doesn't stop, he has no more than a minute to live.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Erik's fingers brush against a candlestick. It's not sharp in the slightest. But rope is merely dried weeds, when it comes to it. Kindle. And kindle is consumed by the fire it was meant for.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without a word, he walks over to them as fast as he can manage without blowing the candle out, shielding the weak little flame of hope with his calloused hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hope really is that fragile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he protects it, nonetheless, and it's strange.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grabs Christine's arm, less forcefully: "Stop. That's only tightening the rope." he points out, almost mechanically, and she drops the shard of dull metal like it could explode in her hands at any moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looks him in the eyes again, and there is no anger at all this time, not even righteous fury. Only a silent, yet desperate cry for help.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The flame devours the rope in seconds. The vicomte falls, dead weight, but not a dead man, into his fiancée's waiting arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She cries, again, lifts his chin to help him get whatever air he can get, whispers his name, over and over, and, when Erik kneels next to them, she whispers a tearful </span>
  <em>
    <span>thank you</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Erik's fingers move again, mechanically, though the beat of his heart is all but clockwork, speedy and irregular as it is now, and it stops for a moment when he accidentally touches the viscount's skin. It's warm, like a living body. Like Christine's. But the pulse he feels beneath it is </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing</span>
  </em>
  <span> like hers: it's the slow and struggling pulse of a body that is fighting for its life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Erik has never felt something so disturbing. He presses his fingertips a little deeper into the skin, and he feels faint for a moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Living bodies are one thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dead bodies are another.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that is that, and he's never questioned it before, not since his hands have felt both the warm flesh of the living and the cold stiff bodies of the dead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is an in-between, he realizes. The line is not a clean cut. There are moments, he sees it now, when the dying body clings to life. There are slow, terrifying moments of fluctuation, completely out of man's control, where life and death dance merrily around the maypole of the human soul, and one is as likely to fall as the other.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That, he thinks to himself, is the true terror of death.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His fingers work through the knot with practiced ease, and he slips it away from the boy's neck with what he might call </span>
  <em>
    <span>care</span>
  </em>
  <span> if he didn't know any better.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he does.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He bites his ruined cheek, repressing the sting of jealousy he feels when Christine's rosy lips brush against the bluish, starved lips of the viscount. It's no more than a brush, and as chaste as it can be, but it's more than his lips will ever see. She seems to sense his unease when he shifts slightly to stand up, and she grasps his sleeve to stop him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stops.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christine smiles. It's a tearful, tired smile, but it's genuine, and it's for </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It's for him, not the Angel of Music, it's for Erik, and that smile is worth more than he can say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But she doesn't stop there. While one arm holds her unconscious fiancé safe in her lap, the other wraps gently around Erik's shoulders, and she pulls him towards her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't know what to do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He finds himself frozen. How would he move? Forward? Returning the undeserved embrace? Backwards? Refusing the comfort they both desperately need at that moment?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't move. He merely hangs his head so that it can fit in the crook of her neck. She tightens her hold just a little. Encouragingly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>More fearful than he's ever felt, he puts one arm around her, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it's the other arm that surprises him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Almost unconsciously, it falls to Raoul's shoulder and he can feel it again. Slow pulse, struggling breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But not </span>
  <em>
    <span>dead</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and not even </span>
  <em>
    <span>dying</span>
  </em>
  <span> anymore. Merely unconscious. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is life thrumming under his fingers, and it is because of </span>
  <em>
    <span>him.</span>
  </em>
  <span> That heart he feels is still beating, and those lungs are still pumping, and those nasty bruises on his neck will heal in due time, and it's on </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Erik knows well what it is to take a life. And, God, it's euphoric. The power that allows him to destroy a machine as complex, as perfect as the human body, with such ease; it runs through him in waves when the machine finally collapses in a heap on the ground, when the hundreds of thousands of simple mechanisms that form the human body all stop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he didn't know, until this point, what it was to </span>
  <em>
    <span>save </span>
  </em>
  <span>a life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels… worse. Better. Worse. Better. He feels an unreasonable attachment to the thready pulse under his fingertips, which makes no sense. He has never had, does not have, and will not have, an ounce of affection for the vicomte. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But maybe it's not the man himself that invoked his rage earlier. Maybe it was what he represented, both for him and Christine. It's not the man that he hates, because they hardly know each other. It's the jealousy of stolen love, because he knows </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> better than anyone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man at their feet is one of those people Erik has observed from the pit, or from behind a curtain, or from the hole in the wall behind Box Five. One of those strong-headed people that makes him wonder if, were things different, they may be friends. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he determines, glancing at Raoul's bloated neck, </span>
  <em>
    <span>not in this life or the next, if he gets a say in it</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he has no time to reflect on that any further. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is a distant pitter-patter, like a drum, Erik would say, but he knows better. Those aren't drums. They're footsteps, </span>
  <em>
    <span>angry </span>
  </em>
  <span>footsteps, the steps of a mob.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knows it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christine certainly knows it, because her grip tightens a bit, and, though she pulls away, her hand remains fisted on his shoulder; still, she asks: "What was that?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Bad news." murmurs Erik, "You must go. Take the boat. Go now, don't let them find you!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I will leave through other means. Go!" he bellows, and she shrinks under his voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To her credit, Christine tries. She slips a hand under Raoul's shoulders and the other reluctantly leaves Erik's to go under his knees. But her grip, shaky from exhaustion and fear, fails. He's heavier than her by far, and her dress doesn't allow her to get up and move, not with such added weight. So Christine wraps her arms around his chest and drags him instead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her determination is admirable but, if she has to drag him all the way to the boat </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>row dead weight across the lake all by herself, she will never make it out in time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hesitantly, Erik reaches out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All it takes is one more heartbeat from the life he saved and his mind is made up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christine looks uneasy when he lifts the viscount off the ground, like she's afraid he'll change his mind on a whim and throw him in the lake, and he can't say it doesn't sting a bit, but he knows he's given her good reason to fear his rage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But no, he lays him in the boat almost gently, helps her climb in, and rows as fast as he can. He realizes a bit too late that his mask still lays on the ground of the lair. Then again, he thinks to himself, if they find the mask they might take it for granted that he vanished and the mob may disperse once their anger has blown off. Maybe. It's not like he intends on spending any more time within their reach than he has to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The lake is not still. It rumbles with the mob's heavy steps, it thumps to the rhythm of their chants: "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Track down this murderer!</span>
  </em>
  <span>" they shout.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is, isn't he? A murderer. A murderer who'd be halfway across Paris by now if it weren't for a brave soprano and an injured viscount. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He finds that he doesn't mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What he does mind, he realizes when he catches himself glancing at Raoul's face, which is slowly returning to its original color, is that the boy missed that part. The last thing he is likely to remember when he wakes is the rope digging into his neck, his fiancée's terrified face, and Erik's booming voice giving her a lose/lose ultimatum.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, God</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Erik will not throw him off the boat, but he might fling </span>
  <em>
    <span>himself</span>
  </em>
  <span> off if the first thing he sees when he wakes up is his decaying face. Provided he has the energy for that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He almost swerves the boat into a rock with his momentary panic, then decides that Christine can and will stop her currently very weak fiancé from doing anything stupid. Which (alas, poor boy) is not an insignificant possibility.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sounds of the mob fade. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christine sighs in relief.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Thank you." she says, again, and he struggles to find an answer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He settles for: "I suppose this is goodbye."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stares pensively at the water.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Will you leave the opera?" she finally asks, and he nods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I can't stay here anymore." he mumbles, "Or else this mob will not be the last."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I…" she whispers, "I don't… do you have a name? I've only called you angel until now."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I have a name."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"May I call you by that name?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You may."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What is it?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hesitates.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Erik."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Erik?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiles softly: "It's a nice name."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels his heart stutter: "Thank you, Christine."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They fall silent again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then she speaks, and it's no more than a whisper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't hate you, Erik."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't turn around: "Excuse me?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't hate you." she repeats, "I might have. But I don't. You saved us. If you had-" she pauses, lacking the courage to speak the word she fears, but the way her hand tightens a bit in Raoult's shirt, where his heart is, tells him all he needs to know.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"If I had…" he encourages.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I wouldn't have forgiven you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's clear and final, and completely serious. Erik nods pensively. Then, something comes to mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Which means you-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It means I forgive you." she says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It catches him by surprise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Because you've paid your debts." she clarifies, or tries to, because it's no clearer to him now than it was before. If anything, he's more confused.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't- I- I don't understand…" he stutters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looks down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You hurt me." she says, "When you scared me on purpose to keep me obedient, when you lied to me, when you kidnapped me. But you showed me the strength of music, you let me sing, </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> sing, and it was the greatest joy I had felt in ten years."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't know why it surprises him. He's seen how she changes when she sings, how happy she is, how she finds shelter in music. But he didn't think she would be grateful to </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span> for that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You worked hard." he compromises.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And Raoul…" she continues, and he winces, "...I… hope he will understand. I was angry with you. If you had…" she pauses, once again unable to speak those two little words, "...I don't know what I would've done. Even if I'd stopped you, there was no guarantee we'd be able to escape the mob. I… I know how out of control they can get."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shivers. Whether from cold or fear, he doesn't know. Maybe both. "I want him to be safe." she whispers, and it's so quiet that the sound of the waves hitting the boat almost drowns it out, but it rings clear as a bell in his mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"They won't find you there." he assures her, "And they won't find me anywhere."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Good." she murmurs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They make it across the lake. Raoul doesn't wake up. Together, they carry him through the tunnels.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just beyond the mirror, she pauses: "Wait!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mh?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looks at the floor, timidly: "I just… now that… Erik, are we on good terms?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's not quite sure of his answer: "I suppose we are."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I just… do you think we'll see each other again? If anything, just to…" her eyes fall to Raoul, and she smiles: "I don't know. He'll come around, if I know him at all."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is one question on Erik's mind. It has been on his mind ever since his murderous rage subsided. He dares not ask it, initially.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he knows it'll be a long time before they see each other again, if at all. So he asks her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Do you love him?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's quiet, and almost timid, and it seems to surprise her. Her jaw hangs open for a moment, then she bites her lip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes </span>
  </em>
  <span>on her face is clear as crystal, even when she averts her eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's painful. He can't deny it. But it's better than the alternative, because if she didn't love him, then going with him would make all three of them unhappy, instead of just one. It's the lesser evil. And it hurts too much for a lesser evil.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Either way it goes, he has to lose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I understand." he forces himself to say, and Christine smiles almost apologetically. It's a smile, though; beneath the regret lies relief and pure, sweet love. But it's not for him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He recalls something that Raoul had said in the graveyard.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You can't win her love by making her your prisoner</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How ironic, then. They </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span> agree on something after all. The songbird's tune turns melancholy when it echoes from the bars of a cage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, though the songbird flies, the song remains, and he knows then where his shelter lies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Music has never abandoned him. It never will.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he's not ready to let go of his muse. Not entirely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Christine." he says, and she turns anxious eyes upon him, "I need you to promise something."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He recalls the look of pure desperation in her eyes as her lover hanged, and knows she will agree no matter what, but he needs to hear it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Promise me," he murmurs, "never to stop singing. And promise me, should you one day hear of the Phantom's demise, that you will show me as much mercy in death as you have in life. Bury me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christine's eyes are shining with unshed tears. She nods, sincerely, and he knows she will keep the promise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And one last promise."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes?" her voice cracks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Promise me I will hear you sing again."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods again, and a tear falls: "I promise. I promise." she repeats, "I will- I will sing for you again. Whenever that may be. You have my word."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes her free hand, and Raoul's.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Then </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> have my blessing."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They disappear through the mirror with a silent </span>
  <em>
    <span>goodbye</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Back to the light they go, where they belong.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Erik knows that outside, dawn is breaking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The night flees.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The music of the night is over now.</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Erik: I don't like Raoul. But I don't want to kill him. What is this?</p><p>Christine : .....human compassion?</p><p>Erik: Ew.</p><p> </p><p>Hello  :D<br/>I am new to this fandom and terrified, please be patient with me  :D</p><p>I might continue this with one or two chapters from Christine and Raoul's perspectives, mayhaps  :)<br/>Let me know!!<br/>And let me know what you think of this, I wrote most of it at ungodly hours (night really is inspiring, thanks Erik) and I am very surprised that I ended up writing it from his POV but what can I say? Erik is fun to write  :,)  and I felt bad for him so SYMPATHETIC EVERYONE, YAY   \O/</p><p>-Cass</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Friendly conversation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The clock's steady tick is a terribly boring background noise, but it's somehow more distracting than his book. Raoul tears his eyes away from the ever-twisting hands of time only to find that he has </span>
  <em>
    <span>completely</span>
  </em>
  <span> forgotten everything he's just read. Resigned to start over, he goes back to the beginning of the page with a heavy sigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That fails.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The clock is loud, the wind is loud, even his own </span>
  <em>
    <span>breath</span>
  </em>
  <span> is loud, if only on account of how raspy it is.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No talking for more than ten minutes at a time.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Avoid laughter.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Avoid excessively hot or cold foods.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Absolutely no singing.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The doctor's note from a week before lays abandoned on the table in front of him and </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything is too loud</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and he's tired. Why is the clock loud? He couldn't even hear it when Christine was in the room, talking or humming or even just breathing as she scrawled out pages upon pages of song lyrics.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was only remaking her songbook, she told him when he asked if she was writing songs. Her old one has been lost in the chaos backstage at Don Juan Triumphant. He bought her a sky blue ribbon to act as a bookmark and she smiled wide, sewing it to the book's spine almost immediately.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She likes blue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And she's out, for some reason or another. Rehearsal, probably, or to buy something, or… God, it doesn't matter. He's missed a lot. Where is she?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why did he let her go alone?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stands up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then pauses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, she's not alone. She's with Madame and Mademoiselle Giry, at the market. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He falls back in his chair bonelessly. His memories have begun to be unreliable starting from the events at the lake. He feels anxious for no apparent reason, spaces out for several minutes without realising, and wakes up muttering hoarsely and sweating profusely after nightmares he can't even remember. She hears his broken screams from the other room sometimes, and she asks him about it. But he doesn't care to talk about it. And if he spoke of those nightmares to Christine, he would exhaust his ten minutes talking about painted devils and forgotten fairytales.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he doesn't.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She's worried, and he knows it, but she can't say anything to him because she has nightmares too, and doesn't wish to speak about them any more than he does.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What she does want to speak about is the Phantom. Or, Erik. She told him the moment he woke up (on the floor of a dressing room, soaked to the bone and with the worst sore throat of his life) that he'd been saved. They'd been saved. By the Phantom.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, honestly, he may have dismissed it as her being shocked initially, if not for the fact that her memories were, according to everyone they talked to, more reliable than his.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then </span>
  <em>
    <span>why</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he'd asked her, </span>
  <em>
    <span>did he let me go</span>
  </em>
  <span>? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knows he's been hanged. The mark is there for all to see, and the damage to his throat hasn't passed yet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christine has told him something.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He'll be back</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she said, brushing his tangled hair after she'd dried it with a towel, </span>
  <em>
    <span>to talk with you. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She refused to answer any more questions about that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Raoul has a very strange feeling that the moment has come. In the morning, before leaving with the Girys, Christine was acting… strange. She gave him a look that was both knowing, anxious and excited. And very, very worried.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That is why he can't focus.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That is why everything is so loud.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It must be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That must be why all three ladies gave him warning glances about something he doesn't know. It was terribly unsettling, to be honest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And the damn clock ticks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And the windows creak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They weren't open before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Monsieur le Vicomte." greets a voice behind him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Raoul almost laughs for some reason: "Monsieur le Fantôme."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't need to turn around. The voice came from behind him, but there the man is, in front of him, like he just </span>
  <em>
    <span>appeared</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Which is the standard for him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You, Monsieur…" he starts, as raspy as ever, "...are truly something."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's not sure why he said that. It's true, yes. Does that make it appropriate for him to say that? No, not really. Does it matter? Also no. The situation is strange enough as it is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't know what you mean." says the Phantom, sounding rather snappy. Like he regrets ever showing up. In all fairness, he probably does.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Raoul tries to backtrack to what his reasoning was for starting a conversation that way, and fails miserably. He remains silent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Erik sighs in what sounds like disappointment: "Have you taken your medicines today, Monsieur?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That gets him thinking. Yes, actually. He has. That may be why his perception is so stilted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes." he admits, quietly, "Apologies. I was not expecting a visit."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Weren't you?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well, Christine was acting strange but…" he tries and fails to stand as his throat itches, masking it as simply shifting in his seat, "...she didn't mention a visit today. Certainly not from you. I do wish she'd told me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He really does. He isn't quite sure why she thought it would be better to spring it on him than to warn him, but it's not like he can ask her at this exact moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I see." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Phantom's voice is melodic even when he speaks two words. He is, truly, well-trained in his art. Silence falls again. Unbearable, awkward silence, that seems to get on the man's nerves almost immediately.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I've come to speak with you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Raoul absently gestures at the empty house: "I might've guessed."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Do not sass me, sir." the Phantom sounds annoyed at best, "I merely wished to check the progression of your ailment."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mh." Raoul nods. Almost mechanically, he picks up the doctor's note (by all accounts, a private document) and holds it out to his visitor, who looks about as confused as the viscount feels. Still, he plucks the paper from his fingers to read it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ah." he says, after a pause, "You are not well."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It hasn't quite healed." Raoul admits, and his voice rasps even more. Water. He needs some water before he starts coughing up blood again. Erik most definitely does </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> need to see that. He makes a move to stand again, and he fortunately succeeds. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Less</span>
  </em>
  <span> fortunately, though, he falls into a coughing fit immediately after.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dry coughs turn to wet coughs, and he just barely manages to reach the bottle of fresh water Christine left out for him before a dark red drop trickles down his chin and stains his pale green waistcoat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He curses quietly, hopefully too quietly for the Phantom to hear it, and pours himself a glass of water. He drinks it without incident, wiping his mouth with the corner of his sleeve and rolling it up before the Phantom can see the red streak it's left on it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the Phantom is not an idiot, and the blood is obvious. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Should you be standing, Monsieur le Vicomte?" he asks, and there's something strange in his voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feeling another fit try to climb up his throat, he simply nods. The dry sarcasm and annoyance returns to Erik's tone, wiping away whatever trace of uncertainty or concern may have been there before: "Really? Because, forgive the audacity, it almost seems to me that you're trying to appear stronger than you are. It almost seems…" he waves the paper in his hand, "...like you haven't told your doctor the whole truth about your symptoms."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That is none of your-" a cough, "-business, Monsieur."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"But, my dear viscount, I did say I was here to check on your health…" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His tone is mocking now, sweet and cold like a teenage bully. But worse. More terrifying. The man has a </span>
  <em>
    <span>presence</span>
  </em>
  <span>, alright, one imposing, terrifying presence, and the fact that he's standing there, smiling like he </span>
  <em>
    <span>isn't</span>
  </em>
  <span> in someone else's house, is making it worse. It's irritating, sure, but it's also frightening to some extent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Erik has changed his mind from </span>
  <em>
    <span>murder</span>
  </em>
  <span> to </span>
  <em>
    <span>no murder</span>
  </em>
  <span> in three minutes flat, and he is perfectly capable of the inverse. But Raoul isn't the type to take it lying down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"If I need a nurse I'll call one, Monsieur. Or is that also one of your many talents?" he snaps, fully expecting the Phantom to laugh at him and give a clever retort.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Actually, that shuts him up, for some reason. There are about twenty seconds of awkward silence, broken only by the damn clock, while Raoul waits for a response.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He never gets one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Almost disappointed, he pours himself a bit more water. A trace of blood swirls in the clear liquid, turning it a dark shade of pink. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He reminds himself of who he's talking to, and of the only thing Christine has told him about the inevitable conversation.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Play nice</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Would you like some water?" he rasps out in a kind of pathetic attempt to be polite. The Phantom sneers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Contrary to popular belief, Monsieur le Vicomte, I have no desire to drink your blood."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I doubt anyone would want to." mumbles Raoul, bringing the second glass to his lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Normally, there's an itch in his chest before a coughing fit. A warning of sorts. Not this time. His eyes fly open like the shutters of a bakery in the morning, and he nearly bends double with the first cough, spraying the tiny sip he's managed to take all over his arm. The glass slips from his hand. It rolls on top of the cabinet, staining the lacey white tablecloth pink, and rolls off the edge.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Erik catches it, suddenly there, like he wasn't on the opposite side of the room a second ago, and calmly places it back on top of the cabinet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You'll need some cold water for that." he mumbles, nodding at the tablecloth and at Raoul's shirt and waistcoat, "Or else the blood will never come off."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Raoul can't help himself. "You would know." he murmurs, and regrets it almost immediately, because the guy is </span>
  <em>
    <span>right there</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and they have something to talk about, and here he is being unnecessarily aggressive. In his defense, Erik isn't behaving much better.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the Phantom sounds almost pensive when he replies.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I would, wouldn't I?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Raoul turns to him with a drop of bloodied water still running down his chin: "What?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I </span>
  <em>
    <span>would </span>
  </em>
  <span>know, you're right." Erik says, a foot away from a chair, but not finding it in himself to sit down, "I know a lot of things. I've designed mazes and chambers made of mirrors. Built them myself, sometimes. I've murdered many more than those you've seen. I've written songs, I've written an entire opera that will now only live on as </span>
  <em>
    <span>the opera that went wrong</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I invented more than one method to kill people. I know the ins and outs of architecture, music, engineering, and I know exactly how to break every single one of the mechanisms that form a human body. I know how long someone can live when they're hanged…" he shoots a glance at Raoul, and probably sees him when he flinches, "...I know what rope is made of, and I know how to break it. I know how to murder, maim, and blackmail, a thousand different ways. I know, all too well, how it is to take a life. And now, I know how it is to save one."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Raoul stays silent throughout the entire speech. He feels something tugging him towards the ground: his stomach sinking, perhaps, or gravity finally winning over his feeble body's defenses to drag him down. But he doesn't fall. He stands, quiet, and thinks of what to say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Erik's speech has been exhaustive. He's answered nearly everything. Except for the one thing that he really wanted to know. The thing that has been on Raoul's mind for almost a month now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Why?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Phantom smiles bitterly: "Why, what?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Why me?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That seems to give him pause. He seems to be weighing his options. And Raoul clarifies exactly which answer he wants: "The truth. I want the truth from you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Phantom smiles once again, enigmatically: "Good Monsieur," he laughs, "I've already given you the truthful answer."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"If you have, it was well hidden." he insists. His time's running out. He can feel his voice fading with every word he says, and he knows he's well past his ten minutes. He shoots a glance at the blood in the water. Christine will be worried. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns back to Erik, and finds him staring at Christine's unfinished songbook.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Alright." the Phantom concedes, "The truth is, I felt your pulse as you were dying and I realized that the line between life and death is a wide, blurred and agonizing line. That is all."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he asked for honesty, he's not sure that this is what he meant. Because now he's more confused than before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Th…" he coughs, "That's it?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So the only difference between me and- and Buquet, and Piangi-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Phantom shifted uncomfortably: "Not exactly. But essentially, yes."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Raoul has </span>
  <em>
    <span>no idea</span>
  </em>
  <span> what any of that means. Any of it. He still doesn't know why he lives and breathes (more or less), nor does he know what was it about a dying person that shocked Erik into sparing a life he, by all means, seemed to have no care for. He still doesn't know why Erik wanted to talk to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He opens his mouth to confront him about that, and immediately coughs up a few more drops of blood into his hand. He's reached his limit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Erik seems to understand that: "I don't think you should talk anymore."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Raoul raises his hand: </span>
  <em>
    <span>wait</span>
  </em>
  <span>, as he searches for something, </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span> to write on, to ask Erik what he really wants to know, what he seems to be dancing around. There are scraps of paper left over from Christine's songbook on the shelf. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But, when he turns, the Phantom is gone and the windows are shut.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the table lies a note:</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Au revoir.</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>After a.... Staggeringly long period of reflection, during which I wrote eight out of twelve chapters, I finally got over myself and decided to start posting the whole thing.<br/>Some extra info about this story:<br/>-R/C is in this but it's not really the focus of the story<br/>- POV changes every chapter between the three protagonists<br/>- I basically threw Leroux canon and ALW canon in a blender (not a lot of Leroux though because I haven't quite finished the book oop)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Mon Frère</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p>
  <span>True to his word, Erik returns. Three days later, to be precise, very unceremoniously, just sort of </span>
  <em>
    <span>appearing</span>
  </em>
  <span> in the living room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And nearly causing Raoul to topple over from the start, of course. Of course.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Good afternoon, Monsieur le Vicomte."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Good afternoon, yourself." Raoul rasps out, after a truly impressive string of silent curses, "You know, you're allowed to knock."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Erik seems genuinely confused for a moment: "Knock? Do you think, Monsieur, that I could simply walk up to your house unnoticed?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I did not think that. But I did hope that." Raoul admits, and he can practically </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel</span>
  </em>
  <span> the disappointment radiating off the Phantom. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He has no time to answer, though, because the door to the room swings open, loud enough to make even the Phantom wince a little, and in comes a visitor. A visitor who wasn’t expected until tomorrow.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Raoul</span>
  </em>
  <span>!" cries Philippe, making a beeline for his brother, "Dear God above, </span>
  <em>
    <span>petit</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you gave me the scare of my life!! I am getting too old for this!"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Raoul is relieved, on one hand. On the other, as soon as he remembers who is standing next to him, he feels the overwhelming urge to sink into the floor and vanish like the Phantom could do if only Philippe weren't standing right there. His face (and his mask) are well hidden by the hat and cape he wears, and he takes good care to keep Philippe on the healthy side, but his piercing brown eyes are telling Raoul to </span>
  <em>
    <span>please distract him before he notices he’s standing next to the same person he swore to shoot in his last letter. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Well, his eyes don’t say exactly that. But that’s how he sees them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Raoul forces a smile, knowing very well that his face has lost all colour: "Philippe!! I wasn't-" a cough, "-expecting you. I thought you'd be here tomorrow."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I got here as soon as I possibly could." sighs Philippe, and he definitely </span>
  <em>
    <span>looks</span>
  </em>
  <span> like he hasn't slept in his entire travel from Marseille to Paris, "Are you alright? Sit down, Raoul, sit down!! You're as pale as Death!" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Raoul sinks into the couch, wishing it would absorb him: "I'm alright."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Never scare me like that again!! For God's sake!! Did they catch the madman who did this to you?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Erik visibly flinches this time, and the movement is enough to attract the count's attention. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Oh, I… forgive me, Monsieur. I did not see you there. Who are you?" he asks, and Erik hesitates for just a second, but it's enough to give Raoul time to intervene.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"He's a writer!!" he rasps out, "From- from the Opéra Populaire. He was… um, he came here looking for Christine Daaé, remember her? Yes, but-" a cough, "... but she's not here, as you can see, so the gentleman was just on his way out. Thus the hat and cape."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Philippe nods absent-mindedly. He seems to have bought it, for the time being.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'll be on my way." says Erik. He bows his head to the two brothers and vanishes out the door. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Philippe turns back to him: "But you haven't told me much, </span>
  <em>
    <span>petit</span>
  </em>
  <span>. What happened to you? How did you save yourself?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Raoul sees an opportunity. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I did not, </span>
  <em>
    <span>mon grand</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Christine did." he claims, "She's truly heroic, I swear. She found the strength to incapacitate the Phantom and helped me escape."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Philippe seems to hang on his every word. There's a tiny spark of admiration in his eyes that hopefully means he will be more willing to accept a singer as his sister-in-law. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"That is admirable on her part." he admits, "I shall have to thank Mademoiselle Daaé myself. Speaking of which, where </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>your fiancée?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"She is buying medicine. For my throat." Raoul relaxes, finally able to tell the whole truth. It still makes him nervous to lie to Philippe, no matter how innocent the lie may be. And it's not that he doesn't want to give Erik any credit, but he knows his brother would find the true story hard to believe. More than Raoul did. Moreover, he would immediately jump to the wrong conclusions and the last thing he wants is for Philippe to decide he wants to fight the Phantom. He'll tell him eventually. But not now. Not while he's still reeling from Raoul's last letter and a night on the road.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"She sounds like a caring young lady."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"She is!" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Philippe sighs: "Really, </span>
  <em>
    <span>gamin</span>
  </em>
  <span>, what am I going to do with you? I leave you alone for a few months and you go and-" he gestures almost snappily with his right hand, "-and fall in love with a singer, and… and get…"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Hanged?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"That."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I'm fine, Philippe."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You say that as though your doctor's note did not say you were coughing blood." Philippe points out. His expression turns dark as he looks out the window: "I hope they find that man. I hope he feels the rope just as you have."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Philippe</span>
  </em>
  <span>!!" he cries, and his voice cracks. Philippe shakes his head and pats him on the shoulder: "Forgive me, </span>
  <em>
    <span>petit</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I got carried away. I don't like to think about you getting hurt. I must admit, I was rather anxious on my way here. I feared I'd find you on your deathbed, or worse."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I wrote to you." Raoul observes, "I wrote that I was alright."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"That was not your handwriting!"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Philippe slaps a few letters down on the table: "</span>
  <em>
    <span>These</span>
  </em>
  <span> were not written in your handwriting. Do you have any idea how much it frightened me to receive letters from a stranger writing with your voice? If you were too weak to lift a pen, Raoul, I did not want to think about how the rest of you was faring."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Raoul can't help but look away in shame. He speaks more quietly this time: "I asked Christine to write them. I wasn't too weak, it's just… my index finger was dislocated because it got caught in the rope and-"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"And you couldn't ask her to write to me directly?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I didn't think of that!" Raoul shouted, and immediately turned away in a coughing fit. It racks his ribs and it rattles his spine, and Philippe's hands on his back are only a small comfort now. He can tell even before looking at his brother that he's going to feel guilty about aggravating him, but they're brothers and he will get over it as soon as the conversation shifts topic again. They both know it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Philippe kneels in front of him now, rubbing his shoulder: "I'm sorry. Don't shout, </span>
  <em>
    <span>petit</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It's not good for you. Just focus on getting better."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Raoul nods. His throat feels too scratchy to speak just yet. He looks at Philippe and frowns. His brother looks </span>
  <em>
    <span>tired</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Like anyone who'd travelled through the night would be. He wants to tell him to rest, but he fears another fit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then, like the saving grace she is, Christine knocks on the window to the parlour. There's a small frown on her face, as though she could tell that he and Philippe were fighting. Maybe she can.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Either way, she disappears from the window and appears moments later at the door, carrying a small blue purse: "Raoul, are you alright?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He nods and she turns to Philippe, offering him a shy curtsey: "Monsieur le Comte, forgive the intrusion."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Philippe has stood to face her before she even finishes: "Oh, no. No, don't apologize, my dear, not when I owe </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> an apology."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Christine freezes completely for a second. She gives Raoul a look that says </span>
  <em>
    <span>what did you tell him</span>
  </em>
  <span> loud and clear, and he gives her a knowing grin that she knows to mean </span>
  <em>
    <span>just go with it</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Whatever do you mean, Monsieur le Comte?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Philippe will work just fine, Mademoiselle." he bows in a belated response to her curtsey and takes her free hand in both of his: "I merely wished to apologize for doubting your values and virtues. I wanted only the best for my brother, and did not realize I was standing in front of her."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Christine's face flushes with pride and embarrassment: "Monsieur!!" she stutters.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I would only be too happy, Mademoiselle Daaé, to call you my sister-in-law. If you would." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She looks like she's going to faint. With a nervous laugh, she places her other hand on top of Philippe's: "Thank you, sir. I… am not sure what I did to warrant your admiration, but I assure you, I do treasure it."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The count smiles: "It would seem modesty is one virtue I did not give you credit for. Raoul here claims you saved his life."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She shoots him a different look then, and Raoul thinks that maybe a convenient fainting spell wouldn't be so bad right now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Philippe!" he intervenes, "I'm afraid it was quite an ordeal for Christine. One she does not wish to relive just yet."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There's a pointed warning in his voice, and Christine gives him a silent </span>
  <em>
    <span>thank you</span>
  </em>
  <span> with a side of </span>
  <em>
    <span>we'll talk about this later</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Still, it gets Philippe to back off, and that's quite enough for him for now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stands, not without a little effort, and claps Philippe on the shoulder: "But, </span>
  <em>
    <span>mon grand</span>
  </em>
  <span>, how pale you look! Surely, you must be tired. I cannot speak for much longer anyway, so I think you should go and rest."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I must admit…" murmurs the count, "...that, now that I know you're in good hands, I wouldn't mind resting my head for a few hours."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I entreat you then, sleep." Raoul encourages, pushing him towards the guest bedroom with less subtlety than he'd like, "I believe we'll still be at home when you wake up. Sleep!"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Philippe closes the door and disappears from their sight.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Christine is silent on their way back to the parlour. Only when they've sat down at the table does she speak: "Why did you lie to him?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Raoul sighs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Because I know him." he says, "He's still reeling from the letters, and his travel to get here. He was worried sick. He wants the Phantom's head and, as of now, that will not change no matter what I tell him. Christine, he thinks me fragile and weak. He still thinks me a boy. If I'd told him, when he first asked, </span>
  <em>
    <span>the Phantom changed his mind about killing me when I was moments away from death</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he would not believe me. He would want answers that I can't give him, and he would get angry. Moreover, he would have no respect for you."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yes, but you </span>
  <em>
    <span>will</span>
  </em>
  <span> tell him. Right?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I will, I promise. When the time is right, I will."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Very interesting." comments a voice behind them, and they both snap back with a start.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Erik." Christine breathes.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This is where book canon (and canon divergence) comes in because I am: very basic but also I didn't want Philippe to be dead oop</p>
<p>Feedback, constructive criticism and comments are very much appreciated  :)<br/>-Cass</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Calvary</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The Phantom is slow and deliberate in his movements. He walks, without hurry, up to the pair: "Very interesting, indeed. What is this I hear, my dear viscount, about Monsieur le Comte wanting my head? And about you </span>
  <em>
    <span>lying</span>
  </em>
  <span> to him?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Raoul can't seem to help his irritation from seeping into his voice. He also seems to hope that the fear doesn't show as well. Oh, but it shows. It almost brings a smile to Erik's face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It seems clear to me you've been listening in. I've already explained why I lied." he hisses. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Erik isn't impressed: "By all means, Monsieur, let your brother know the truth. It's very thoughtful of you, but there is nothing he can do to harm me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Raoul appears to have a retort ready, but bites his tongue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn't escape the Phantom's notice. And, suddenly, it's </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> clear where his fear comes from. Erik can't help the smile that creeps onto his face: "But, of course, you know that. You don't fear for me. You fear for him."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's a flash of pure, blind terror in the viscount's eyes. He's guessed right and he knows it. Raoul's entire body is frozen in a mix of fear, which drags him back, and protective rage, which pushes him forward, and it's a spectacle.  Caught in between two unstoppable forces, he can do nothing but tremble and stutter. He's seen him like that before, of course. But this time, there's something different. It’s worse than before. Why, he doesn’t know, nor does he care.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christine seems to notice his distress.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Erik…" she starts, but her fiancé doesn't let her finish. He stands up. The collar of his shirt shifts, showing the collection of bruises on his neck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Let me be clear, Monsieur." says Raoul, and it comes out raspier than before: "I am in your-" a cough, "-debt. I am grateful that you spared my life, and released me and Christine. But, God help me, if I so much as suspect-" he coughs again, "-that you mean Philippe harm, I will see you </span>
  <em>
    <span>dead</span>
  </em>
  <span> or </span>
  <em>
    <span>die trying</span>
  </em>
  <span>!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's not intimidating in the least. They all know it. It's pathetic and it's an adorable sentiment on his part. So much so, that Erik changes his mind about telling him he was joking. What's the harm in a little fun if he's just spouting empty threats?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Such spirited words, Monsieur!" he grins, "Very well. I shall give you time. When I return, I trust the Count will know who he truly owes his beloved brother's life to."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christine stands up with a retort ready on her tongue, but is forced to shift her attention to Raoul when he lunges at the Phantom. She throws her arms around his chest: "No, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Raoul, no</span>
  </em>
  <span>!!" she cries, and Erik walks away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neither of them can stop him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Let it be known that Christine Daaé loves her fiancé. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Let it also be known that she would like him to </span>
  <em>
    <span>back off</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>calm down</span>
  </em>
  <span> sometimes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Let it also be known that this is one of those times.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Raoul, no!!" she cries, again, pulling him away from the door through which the Phantom disappeared. Raoul crumples on the armchair with a short, wheezing breath. In fact, Christine notices with a frown, </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span> his breaths are like that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Raoul, are you alright?" she asks him. For a moment, when he looks at her, she thinks she can see his eyes glisten, but they turn glassy and unseeing in a matter of seconds. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"R… Raoul?" she stutters, as his grip on her shoulder grows lax, "Raoul!! No!!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shakes him by the shoulder and he blinks rapidly, though his breathing still hasn't evened out: "Ph… i… Philippe…?" he murmurs, and she holds his hand tight. He seems to see her for the first time in a few minutes: "Christine…" he breathes, "...where… where's-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Gone." she says, and she's sure this man will give her a heart attack someday, "Eri- the Phantom's gone, Raoul. Breathe."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"N…" he shakes his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Breathe for me, dear."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"...not… him."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Where's… where's Philippe?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His voice is too raspy and he's still breathing too quickly. Christine has one thought in her head, one very loud thought, and it is: </span>
  <em>
    <span>this is not good</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He's alright." she swears, and her voice cracks: "He's alright, dear. He's sleeping, remember?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Raoul's eyes give another spark of recognition. It lasts only a second, though, before they become terrifyingly unfocused and roll back into his head, and his weak grip on her hand relaxes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Raoul</span>
  </em>
  <span>!!" she screams, "Raoul!!!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He opens his eyes when she squeezes his hand, but he looks right through her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She turns to the door: "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Help</span>
  </em>
  <span>!! Monsieur le Comte, help!!!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not five seconds have gone by that a door slams somewhere and the count stumbles into the parlour, half dressed and disheveled. His eyes lock on Raoul and for a moment he's frozen. Then he runs to them: "Oh, God!! What happened?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He isn't breathing!" she cries, and she can feel her eyes sting, "Oh, God, he isn't breathing!!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She isn't getting much air herself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But, when Philippe grabs Raoul by the shoulders, the start seems to get him breathing again. He locks eyes with his brother for just a moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then he goes limp in his arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Raoul</span>
  </em>
  <span>!!" they both scream, in unison, and soon the viscount is sandwiched between them as they both frantically try to figure out what's wrong. He's completely unresponsive now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Philippe turns to her and she knows what's coming.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"My dear girl," he says, "what happened to upset him so much?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She hesitates. She thinks about Erik's request, and whether or not it was a threat. She thinks about Raoul's warnings. She thinks about Philippe. And she makes a decision.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I must tell you!" she cries, "Raoul said I shouldn't tell you, but I must!! Monsieur le Comte, Raoul lied to you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What?" Philippe stutters, "About what?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I did not save him!" she admits, "I did not incapacitate the Phantom and free him. The Phantom…" she hesitates. Philippe seems to hang on her every word.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"The Phantom chose to spare his life." she says, and she turns an apologetic look to her unconscious fiancé, "He helped us escape. I couldn't have saved Raoul myself. I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She feels a sob climb up her throat, and she's not sure who she's apologizing to. She buries her face in Raoul's open palm, wishing he could have told Philippe himself. Maybe he would have known what to say. The count isn't cold or angry, though. He sounds shocked, more than anything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Why…" he stutters, "Why didn't he say so?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She dares to look up at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He claimed you would… not believe him. He seemed to be under the impression that you may go after the Phantom."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't answer, and Christine feels the blood freeze in her veins, because it seems Raoul was </span>
  <em>
    <span>right</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and she really should have given him more credit on that: "Monsieur, do </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>go after the Phantom, I beg you. Not even to thank him. He is a dangerous man."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Does he hide his face?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christine blinks. She's not sure where the question came from, nor where it’s going: "I… yes, sir."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Philippe glances around the room like he expects the Phantom to jump out at any moment. Maybe he does.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Monsieur?" she calls, and he turns his attention back to her: "I'm serious when I say you must not seek out the Phantom. If not for yourself, then for us. Do not forget, the mere prospect of you going anywhere near the Phantom was enough to make Raoul forget how to breathe!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She can't keep the harsh warning out of her tone, and she hopes the count won't take offense to it. He doesn't seem to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I… yes." he nods, "Yes, I will stay with him. I will try my best not to aggravate him any further."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He seems to be trying to convince himself more than anything, but whatever works. Christine squeezes Raoul's hand a little harder, almost apologetically: "We should take him to bed."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It's a Calvary. Raoul's temperature rises enough to give him a little fever. It's nothing serious, but it's the cherry on top of a mountain of issues. He wakes up only briefly and passes out again in a matter of seconds, no matter how hard they try to keep him awake. He shifts in his sleep, refuses blankets and sheets, and regularly tries to climb off the bed in a feverish daze. It's a long and stressful day, and as the sun dies so, at last, does Raoul's struggle against the ghosts in his mind. After a harsh gasp, he stills and doesn't move the rest of the night. Philippe finally manages to pull a blanket on him, and the physician they've called finally leaves saying he'll be back tomorrow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christine wakes up at midnight, clutching Raoul's left hand. Raising her head, she sees Philippe in a similar predicament on the opposite side. The Chagny men are sleeping soundly. Christine smiles. The room is silent, but for one thing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Music.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is music coming from the vents.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christine has seen where the vents lead: to the back garden of Raoul's house. And she knows very well who is singing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tune is mournful. He wants to talk. Well, he'd better have an excuse ready, she thinks, and it had better be a good one. She doesn't quite know why she waited until this moment to be mad at Erik, but it's… yes, she's angry. For once. Maybe, she theorises, it's because the last time she was almost unforgivingly angry with him, she fully expected him to behave worse than he has. But this time, she expected him to behave </span>
  <em>
    <span>better</span>
  </em>
  <span>. That must be the difference.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christine, unnoticed, slips her hand out of Raoul's lax grip and sneaks out of the bedroom.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As she suspected, as soon as she's outside, she can make out a dark figure standing with his back to her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm here." she simply says, and he turns around.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Were you sleeping? It took you quite some time." he murmurs. She feels something bubbling in her chest, that has the bitter taste of anger. He doesn't even have the decency to look ashamed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I thought you were past this." she glares, "I thought you'd realised your mistakes."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I have." he claims, "I was only teasing."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Were you?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I swear it. It was a joke."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You can't joke about things you were capable of!!" she snaps, "You can't expect Raoul to understand you're joking when he knows you've murdered people before!! You're actively impeding his recovery now! You-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She bites her lip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You may have delayed it by days." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's silent, at first.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I didn't mean to." he murmurs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stares at him. There's no trace of dishonesty in his posture, or his voice. She deflates: "I know." she says, "But you scared him half to death."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You agree with him."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You agreed with him that I'm dangerous."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She has. She really has.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I did." she admits, "I was afraid you were serious."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Why?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Because there is only one threat you haven't made good on so far." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christine knows she's right. He seems to know it too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I will not threaten the viscount anymore." he promises, "But I will defend myself should they choose to attack me. Do let them know."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She tries to bargain with him. It doesn't work.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They part ways.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Who'd have thought that respiratory issues combined with a panic attack and a burst of anger would have consequences, right?  </p><p>Leave a comment if you will  :,)<br/>-Cass</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Night Terrors and Tea</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The sun is always a pleasant sight for Raoul.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This statement is always true with only one exception, and that exception is this exact moment. The sun beats harshly against his half opened eyelids, forcing him to squint in displeasure. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's still floating, for a moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, all at once, feeling returns, awareness returns, and he's aware of the weight of his body, the weight of someone else beside him, the heat of the sun on his face, and the lark's song outside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Philippe lays sleeping on his arms, with a cobalt blue shawl that Raoul recognises all too well. It's Christine's. She's not in the room, and yet she's still there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He misses her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gives Philippe's hand a small squeeze, because it's all he can do to wake him, and he has to wake him if he's going to move from the damn bed. His legs will not carry him, he can tell. Philippe stirs at the touch, but doesn't wake. So Raoul does the only thing a little brother can do and squeezes harder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time he wakes, alright, with an indignant squeak of pain: "Ow-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Good morning." mumbles Raoul, with a tiny hint of satisfaction in his voice, "Slept well?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Philippe wastes no time in scolding him: "Soundly as one can after the heart attack you gave me." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I meant to ask you about that." he chuckles, and his voice is raspier than it was yesterday morning. Which is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> good, and most definitely something that warrants investigation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ask me about what, Raoul?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What happened? I can't… quite recall." he admits, scratching the back of his head. It's not even itching, he just needs to fix his hair before it starts to stab into his scalp.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Philippe's expression turns sad: "I was hoping you might tell me, </span>
  <em>
    <span>petit</span>
  </em>
  <span>. But I had to get the story from Mademoiselle Daaé instead."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Raoul feels his blood freeze: "Oh."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So…" he's more composed now, "What is this about the Phantom sparing you?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Raoul wants to sink into the floor: "Philippe…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, I would like to know." he interrupts, "Why you lied to me. I hear you thought I would pursue the Phantom."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I didn't </span>
  <em>
    <span>think</span>
  </em>
  <span> you would." Raoul corrects, "I </span>
  <em>
    <span>feared</span>
  </em>
  <span> you would."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Raoul-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, listen. Listen. I know he spared my life, but he took many others. There's blood on his hands, and I will not be so easily persuaded that I can trust him just because they're clean of mine. I couldn't help Christine, and I know he wouldn't kill her. But you- I-" he's forced to pause when his throat starts to ache. Philippe waits until he can finish the sentence, "You are a stranger to him. I was afraid you might cause what he deems to be trouble, and- and I don't want you to-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stops and doesn't speak again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Philippe waits. Then he asks him a simple question: "Was he the man you were talking to when I arrived?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Raoul's throat feels completely closed now. He nods, biting the inside of his lip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't be angry with Christine." he murmurs, because it's as loud as he can speak without his voice cracking. Philippe nods and squeezes his hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neither of them speaks until it's time to get up.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They start to hear hushed voices on their way to the parlour. Two of them. One is Christine's, and the other… well, it's familiar, but too quiet to recognize it. Raoul isn't worried they'll find the Phantom there, though: it is the voice of a young girl they hear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can make out a few words before the speakers acknowledge their presence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"...well…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"...sure it… him?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"...doubt."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Philippe unfortunately clears his throat before Raoul can gather any important information and the two girls turn around in the blink of an eye. Christine, still in yesterday's clothes, stands awkwardly next to the table. Beside her, Meg, who appears to have got dressed in a rush, suddenly seems to find the fabric that covers the sofa very interesting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Raoul feels three pairs of eyes on him, and decides to break the silence: "Ah, Mademoiselle Giry. Philippe, you remember Meg Giry?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Of course." Philippe smiles nervously and helps Raoul sit down before planting a delicate kiss on Meg's knuckles: "It's a pleasure to see you again, Mademoiselle. To what do we owe your presence?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Meg giggles nervously, bowing her head to the count: "I'm sorry for the intrusion. I wanted to see how Monsieur le Vicomte was feeling, and I wasn't aware he was still asleep."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm quite alright." smiles Raoul, "Much better than yesterday, that much is clear."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All three shoot him a worried glance, and he immediately rectifies: "But, of course, I feel better than the day before as well."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Are you breathing right, Monsieur?" asks Meg.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Quite right, thank you. This house is getting crowded." he murmurs, smiling nervously at the window.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, I'm sorry to intrude!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, no, Mademoiselle Giry, you're always welcome here." he hurriedly adds, "It just seems like I have an unexpected visitor every day. It warms my heart."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That's not entirely a lie. He's flattered to see so many people are worried about him. But it's also terribly awkward. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Would you…" he shifts nervously, "Would you care to stay for breakfast, Mademoiselle?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I would like that."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Breakfast is awkward. Every clink of cutlery that breaks the silence makes Raoul want to stab his ears out. Christine keeps exchanging knowing looks with Meg, Meg keeps glancing at him, Philippe seems to find the plate very interesting, and Raoul is tired. Tired of a lot of things, but mostly this permanent awkwardness that seems to surround him, the way visitors treat him like he's made of glass. The lies.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's Meg, God bless her, who finally breaks the silence: "Do you feel ill, Monsieur?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Raoul shakes his head with a smile: "I'm quite alright. I'm feeling much better today, actually. I suppose my body needed some time to sort itself out."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Philippe drops his fork.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Sort itself out</span>
  </em>
  <span>?" he scoffs, "You were delirious!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I was not!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"If I may-" Christine intervenes, the saint she is, "He seemed to be having nightmares. Those are unfortunately not uncommon."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"But for an entire day, Mademoiselle!" protests Philippe, "He suffered almost ten hours through these nightmares. That is not normal!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Philippe</span>
  </em>
  <span>."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't take that tone with me." he seethes, but his tone softens immediately: "You worry me, Raoul. What kind of nightmares would make you struggle like that?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Take a guess!" Raoul exclaims, terribly tempted to just get up and leave but well aware that he's too weak to do anything of the sort. He hates how his throat aches. He can't tell if it's a result of his injuries, the overwhelming urge to scream and cry that he has to suppress, or both. He half expects his little outburst to result in a fit of coughing, but it doesn't. It falls into a dead silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Philippe looks away, taking the hint. The girls look at each other. Raoul closes his eyes and looks only at the faint remnants of his night terrors.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The mask of Death that is the Phantom's face isn't as terrifying to him after he's talked to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, what he can't unsee is the rope. The way it coiled around his neck like one of those enormous snakes he has seen in books and zoos. The way everything he did to free himself only tightened it. He vaguely remembers Christine mentioning that he has kicked off every blanket and sheet they've tried to cover him with, and they both know why he has.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hasn't been so terrified of an inanimate object since he was a child, and it's embarrassing. Even more so is the fact that the mere thought of entering a theater again makes him feel faint. Worse than that, the idea of boarding a ship makes him feel physically ill. There is no escape, on boats and ships, from his nightmares. Coils of rope lay both on and below the deck, water is all around, and music soars high above the sea at all times.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's terribly weak, and that may be the most terrifying part of that ordeal: it has left him with the pervasive knowledge that, if it were to happen again, he wouldn't be able to save himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He still flinches when the collar of his shirt tugs at his neck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's weak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's <em>weak</em>.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Because in Leroux canon Raoul is a sailor and I decided to traumatise him too much for that, too.</p><p>I'm sorry, Raoul   :,)</p><p>On a happier note, Meg  :D</p><p> </p><p>-Cass</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. New Deal</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Erik does not like the sun.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He really doesn't. And he's not quite sure why most people do. It's bright and annoyingly hot and it exposes every ugly detail of whatever is </span>
  <em>
    <span>blessed</span>
  </em>
  <span> by its garish light. Then again, most people have ugly details, as opposed to ugly </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything</span>
  </em>
  <span>, so that might be less jarring for them. Really, he would much rather pay his visits at night, but he knows Raoul is never left alone at night, so bright and glaring lights it is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He slips in, unnoticed, as soon as he sees the count de Chagny leave the house. The man looks upset for some reason, but that has nothing to do with him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Erik fights the urge to rip his cape off as soon as the sun comes out from the cloud that was mercifully covering it before. God, he hates the summer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Raoul isn't drinking water, for once, but he's not sure that's a good thing. He seems to have dozed off in an armchair the moment he was left alone. He looks smaller than usual, curled in on himself, and it has much the same effect that a puppy would. It's cute, because it can't hurt anyone.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Pathetic</span>
  </em>
  <span> may be the right word.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Erik knows he should wake him. The question is </span>
  <em>
    <span>how</span>
  </em>
  <span>. With noise? Might attract unwanted attention and not everyone is sensitive to noise anyway. Touch? No, Raoul is definitely on the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fight</span>
  </em>
  <span> side of the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fight-or-flight</span>
  </em>
  <span> reflex. Cold water? As amusing as that would be, it would be impolite.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then again… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Erik eyes the water pitcher on the table. It would be the safest option. Unless it blows up in his face, which, to be fair, is not an unprecedented issue. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pressure to solve his little dilemma increases in a matter of seconds. The viscount turns on his side and takes the arm of the chair in a white-knuckled grip. The other hand claws at his neck, and Erik's mind is made up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hopefully, no one notices the wet patch on the furniture.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Raoul gasps loudly, spitting and coughing, but he's awake, alright. Awake and very annoyed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What the hell??" he shouts, wiping the water away from his eyes. "Oh." he adds, when he sees the very incriminating pitcher in Erik's hand, "It was you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I was debating waking you up, but I need you awake and you looked like you were having a truly unpleasant sleep." the Phantom deadpans, putting the pitcher back where it was.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And an equally unpleasant wake was your solution?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Raoul sasses him, but he doesn't sound angry. In fact, there's some relief in his voice: "Why are you here?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He seems willing to hear him out. That's good.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm here to propose a deal."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"A deal?" Raoul immediately looks unsettled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's more like a favour, really. There is no… otherwise." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You mean </span>
  <em>
    <span>threat</span>
  </em>
  <span>?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes, that."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What do you want?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sounds colder now, but he hasn't chased him out of the house yet, so that's good. Erik straightens out and makes his request.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I only want to redeem myself."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It seems to surprise the young viscount somewhat. It's certainly piqued his interest: "And how do you intend to do that?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That's where you come in. I'm asking you to help me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"But…" Raoul repeats, "How?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You know society better than I do."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That is… likely true, but I wouldn't…" the Vicomte scratches the back of his head, "I wouldn't know where to start. You're a… you have a very particular history."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I do. So?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Erik doesn't realize how impatient his tone has become until the Vicomte stands from his chair: "I'm not saying I'm unwilling to help you." he clarifies, putting his hand up defensively, "I'm saying I don't know how."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well…" the Phantom steps closer, "Figure something out. I'd hate to end the amiable partnership we seem to be having."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What happened to </span>
  <em>
    <span>no threats</span>
  </em>
  <span>?" breathes Raoul.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Erik grins.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"They've got me this far."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Someone knocks at the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Phantom is gone by the time Raoul looks back at where he was.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Raoul is increasingly convinced that his fiancée is a saint descended from the heavens above. He hasn't found evidence to the contrary yet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She always seems to arrive at just the right time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Is everything alright?" she asks, with a small frown on her face, "Why are you…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She trails off after seeing the dejected look on his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You should probably go change." she suggests, eyeing the little droplets falling from the tips of his hair and the huge wet patch on his waistcoat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're right." he agrees with a heavy sigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Are you okay?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mh?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Why </span>
  <em>
    <span>are </span>
  </em>
  <span>you so wet? Did you dunk your face in the sink?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can't contain a small laugh: "I can't say I did."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christine's expression changes: "Did someone </span>
  <em>
    <span>else </span>
  </em>
  <span>dunk your face in the sink?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No! No, no…" he shakes his head and points at the empty pitcher, "He did splash that on my face though."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Who?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I think you know."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christine looks around in alarm: "When-?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"The moment you arrived. You're a saving grace, you know that?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her face flushes a bit: "You're just saying that. Anyway, go change. You don't want to catch a cold."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're right."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And Raoul?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Then we have to talk."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Talk they do, once he has changed out of the wet clothes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What did he want from you?" is the first thing she asks. She brushes a loose strand of hair away from his face and they both shudder without knowing why.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"He said he wanted to redeem himself and then immediately proceeded to threaten me when I said I didn't know how to help him with that." Raoul huffs, "I'm genuinely wondering if he's aware of how ironic that was on his part."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christine hums: "Probably not. He said he wouldn't threaten you anymore."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well, that didn't take him too long to forget."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mh."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Do you think he'll be back anytime soon?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No doubt." Christine frowns, "I just hope it's when I'm here too next time."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I think he may be avoiding you." Raoul scratches the beginning of a stubble on his chin, "He's definitely avoiding Philippe, and I can't say I blame him, but…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Why me?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hm. I don't know." she admits, "He used to have no qualms about speaking in my presence."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes." he agrees, "But you didn't use to stop him from saying whatever he wanted. Maybe he doesn't know how to deal with the fact that you've begun to disagree with him."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"The last time I talked to him was when you were um… asleep." she says, and he knows what she means, "He at least had the decency to look ashamed about… that. But I haven't seen him since."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Raoul can't help the smile that blooms onto his face: "You scared him off. You're amazing."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her cheeks flush: "Stop that! Sit down, you need your nap."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sits down, but the smile doesn't fade: "Stop what? I think you're extraordinary."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Stop it!!" she cries, pressing a hand to her burning face, "Stop it! We're not children anymore!!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I know, it's been so long and yet you're still amazing." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Raoul</span>
  </em>
  <span>!!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Alright, alright, I'll stop."</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Those who've read any of my other stories know how rare fluffy moments are so um... Yeah, enjoy the rare fluff  :D</p><p>-Cass</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. La Nouvelle Marguerite</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Content warning for mentions of assault. Nothing happens, but be safe  &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>There is a performance tonight. Not just any performance, either. It's the Opera's historical production of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Faust</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and they've practically begged her to sing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So she does.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, it's a bit more complicated than that. First, she has to leave the house, although thankfully, Raoul has been deemed well enough to accompany her and Philippe is one slip of the tongue away from calling her by her first name, so she has good company. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The three of them arrive at the opera house early. It's the first time any of them have been there since… well, since the incident.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They're greeted by the grovelling managers, all bows and compliments and inquiries about their health. Thankfully, Raoul has a high collar. She answers their questions, though she's getting increasingly uncomfortable, and eventually Philippe seems to catch on and distracts the managers for her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Carlotta still hasn't returned. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They're not sure she ever will. She's still deep in mourning, and no one dares insist. Christine has sent her a sincere letter she still hasn't answered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It leaves a bitter taste in her mouth when she sees the empty stage, and a shiver up her spine when her mind flashes back to a corpse hanging from the rafters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then she hears the rhythmic tap of a cane.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Cinq, six, sept, huit. Cinq, six, sept, huit. Again. Amélie, it's your </span>
  <em>
    <span>right</span>
  </em>
  <span> arm. Cinq, six, sept…"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The dancers are rehearsing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She knows it before she even turns the corner.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And when she does, the first to notice her is little Meg herself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Christine!!" she gasps, and a wide smile forms on her face. The other dancers turn around in the blink of an eye, and then she's been swarmed by a flock of young girls in tutus.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Christine!!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Are you okay?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's been so long!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Is it true? Did you see the Phantom?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Is the Vicomte alright?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Do you know where the Phantom went?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Um…" Christine smiles, but she knows there's pure terror in her eyes, and when she looks at Madame Giry, she seems to catch on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She slams her cane on the ground and the girls go silent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Girls." the dance teacher reprimands, "You can talk to Mademoiselle Daaé all you want, but if I see any more of those abysmal arabesques during the performance, I will make you rehearse until tomorrow morning."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The girls, heeding the threat, return to their positions with their tail between their legs. Reluctantly, they do their exercises.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christine hopes her eyes are enough to express the sincere </span>
  <em>
    <span>thank you</span>
  </em>
  <span> she wants to give Madame Giry. Bowing her head, she excuses herself to go change.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She doesn't go change. Not yet. She's not quite ready to set foot in her dressing room again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, she takes a detour to say hi to everybody. Some are happier to see her than others. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Back in the hall, she spots Philippe still talking to the managers and Raoul sitting next to him, looking bored out of his mind. She feels a small pang of sympathy when he finally meets her gaze and rolls his eyes, mouthing something like </span>
  <em>
    <span>help me</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but mostly amusement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a lighter heart, she finally heads to her dressing room and it's not as bad as she thought.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Stuffy dressing rooms may not be the worst problem the Opera's ever had, but it's certainly the one that's annoying her most at this moment. Mostly because she's still reeling from a long performance and a </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> long standing ovation that she had to sit through while feeling faint from said long performance. Besides, though she's not especially prone to passing out, she knows other singers and dancers are, and she's sure they don't appreciate the poor flow of air in the dressing rooms either.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She barely has time to slip into her dressing gown, though, before someone knocks on the door and opens it without waiting for a response. Christine yelps, frantically tying the laces of her dressing gown.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's a man, no younger than fourty, with ratty blond hair and a bright smile. But the brightness has a manic spark to it, and she immediately regrets not locking her door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Monsieur!" she huffs, trying to put all the </span>
  <em>
    <span>you can't just enter my dressing room without permission</span>
  </em>
  <span> in her voice. He ignores it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mademoiselle Daaé!! This is, indeed, an unparalleled delight!!" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Monsieur!! You can't just- you can't just </span>
  <em>
    <span>enter</span>
  </em>
  <span> a lady's dressing room!" she protests, and he gives a quick bow and attempts to kiss her hand. Emphasis on </span>
  <em>
    <span>attempts</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Do forgive me, Mademoiselle. I was sent by Monsieur le Comte to inform you that his brother, the viscount, is unwell and has been taken home immediately after the show ended."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christine feels that old spike of anxiety pierce her chest: "Oh, goodness." she breathes, "Is he alright?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Better than I'd hoped, Mademoiselle."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She gives a sigh of relief: "Oh. Alright. Thank you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man doesn't leave.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She raises her brow: "Thank you, sir. May I-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I was wondering, Mademoiselle…" he interrupts, "if you might need someone to walk you home."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh! Well, yes, but I've already made arrangements with some of the dancers. Thank you anyw-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The lock clicks and her blood freezes in her veins. The man is still smiling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I was hoping to have a moment alone with you, Mademoiselle. I am your biggest fan."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She knows that's a lie. He wants more than </span>
  <em>
    <span>a moment</span>
  </em>
  <span> from her. If he hadn't locked the door, she could just push past him and be out of there in a second. If this were a normal evening, she could stall until Raoul knocks (and waits for an answer, as he should) and then scream for help. Locked door or not, he would come in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he's gone home, he's ill, and the door is locked. And she's scared.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But stalling is still her best option. If she can just get to the door… wait. He's offered to take her home. Obviously, it's an excuse. But it would still allow her to get out of the dressing room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Monsieur, I am flattered." she says, "And I would be glad to let you accompany me home. Monsieur le Comte is expecting me for dinner, and I'm sure he would be worried if I stalled too much with the dancers."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That's not a lie. She's had dinner with the Chagnys for some time now. If she were to run late, at least one of the two would have the sense to look for her. But she doesn't want it to come to that. The man grins: "I don't know about that, Mademoiselle Daaé. He seemed rather preoccupied with his brother. Poor man. Quite ill. I don't suppose he would be too alarmed by your delay if the viscount took a turn for the worse."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She feels her heart stop: "Is there something you're not telling me, sir?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It doesn't matter. Don't worry about </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>." the man spits, seemingly irritated by her concern. Christine stands from her chair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Monsieur, unlock the door. It's improper."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't care!" he growls, "I don't care if it's improper. Do you need help? Do you need someone to take you home? I know you don't love the viscount."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She can't understand whether the pang in her chest is anger or terror: "No!!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You'd think he would have recovered from such a small injury by now." the man continues his rant: "You're the one who's been giving him his </span>
  <em>
    <span>medicine</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Come on, come on. I know you don't love him. Do you need someone to kill him for you? I'll do it for you. I'll do anything for you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>No</span>
  </em>
  <span>!!" she screams, shaking her head, trying to shut out the memory of blue lips and a frayed red rope: "</span>
  <em>
    <span>No</span>
  </em>
  <span>!! </span>
  <em>
    <span>Help</span>
  </em>
  <span>!!!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She grabs the heaviest thing she could find, but all she has is the fragile silver scepter of the Queen of the Night: "Don't touch me!" she hisses, all the same, and the man keeps on rambling, unrelentingly walking towards her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You said it was the Phantom. There </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>no Phantom, is there? No, no, there isn't. You just wanted that man to get off your back. You-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man pauses. They both hear it.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Music</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is music coming from behind the mirror.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She can almost hear a whisper in her ear.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Play along</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And play along she does, pointing the scepter at the man accusingly: "Monsieur, don't you know? It doesn't end well here, for those who deny the existence of the Phantom of the Opera. Sometimes, we find them hanging backstage."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Nonsense!!" he stutters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I tell you Monsieur, it's not prudent to speak of him that way. He is sure to take offense to it." she insists, shuddering.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Nonsense, nonsense, Mademoiselle. There is no Pha-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The </span>
  <em>
    <span>a </span>
  </em>
  <span>of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Phantom</span>
  </em>
  <span> turns into a scream. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man fumbles with the lock, staring at the mirror with a shrill cry for help. Christine doesn't turn around. Like the actress she is, she pretends not to notice the figure behind her: "I told you, Monsieur, to watch your tongue."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, he gets the door open and vanishes down the corridors of the Opera. In the wrong direction. He's going to be lost backstage for a while. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christine runs out of the room without looking back, still in her dressing gown, and leans against the wall of the corridor with a heavy sigh of relief that sounds more like a sob. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A voice comes from the dressing room: "I think I see your point now. That was disturbing."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Thank you…" she gasps, "Oh my God, thank you. Thank you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't answer. Familiar footsteps echo in the corridor, accompanied by the tap of a cane, and Christine has to take a deep breath before she has a chance to ignore all logic and manners and throw herself at Madame Giry. She knows the lady isn't fond of hugs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Madame Giry turns the corner and spots her panting against the wall: "What happened?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christine shakes her head. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Don't ask me</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Madame Giry." echoes a booming voice, "Do accompany Mademoiselle Daaé home."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The lady gives her a once-over and then asks her: "Do you want to change, my dear?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christine shakes her head. The old teacher shrugs off her heavy black cape and hands it to her. She accepts it, with trembling hands, and they head home together.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It's a short and silent walk to the Chagnys' house, and she feels a little better when they arrive. The night air on her skin blows cool and dry and so different from the musty air in the dressing room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, she feels the urge to tell her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Madame Giry?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"There was…" she stutters, "There was a man. He… he said Monsieur le Comte had sent him to warn me of their departure."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tap of the cane stops.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That was a lie." she says, "The count sent </span>
  <em>
    <span>me </span>
  </em>
  <span>to find you. That is why I was nearby."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"But then-"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"There were many people at the scene, my dear. He must have guessed they would be going home when Monsieur le Vicomte fainted." the old woman assures her, "The count did not send a stranger into your dressing room, I assure you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's Madame Giry that knocks on the door, with the pommel of her cane. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's Philippe that opens it, greeting her with a grateful, but clearly stressed smile: "Ah, Madame Giry. Thank you for bringing her h- my dear, what's the matter?" he frowns, when his eyes land on Christine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"She has had a stressful night, Monsieur." answers Madame Giry, "I'm sure she would feel better after a warm drink."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Philippe thanks her and brings Christine inside almost in a hurry. There's no sign of Raoul. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What's the matter? Why are you in your dressing gown still?" he inquires, "Sit, sit. You must be freezing!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's warm to her. Not in that uncomfortable way that the man had, there's nothing manic in his eyes, just genuine, almost fatherly concern. She feels something break.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For the first time in a month, she misses her father again. She finds herself desperate for his embrace, for comfort without worry, for touch with no strings attached, and her eyes start to sting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Christine?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's the first time he's called her that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The dam breaks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh… oh, dear, it's alright."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her sobs are muffled in his jacket and, when Raoul walks in a while later, she can hear Philippe shushing him before he can ask her anything. She appreciates it. She also appreciates it when Raoul takes her free hand in his.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It feels like hours before they let go, and it still wasn't long enough.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Everyone say thank you Erik</p><p>Do I want Philippe to decide that "you know what, this is my sister-in-law so I can adopt her now"? Yes, basically.</p><p>Leave a comment because it's very, very motivating   :,)</p><p>- Cass</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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